


for tender ones like us

by harryanthus



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Asshole Ex, Exes, Exes to Lovers, Flowers, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Late Night Conversations, M/M, No Smut, Post-Break Up, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:15:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27021118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryanthus/pseuds/harryanthus
Summary: There are a few moments that will always hurt before you can remember it with love. This is one of them. He is already aching and hurting and the moment is still alive as the blood coursing through his veins.harry needs a ride. louis is one call away.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 89
Collections: 1d Breakup Fic Fest





	for tender ones like us

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Mikko Harvey’s ‘For M.’

“I need a ride,” Harry says, biting his bottom lip, tasting the lipstick he had applied earlier, the colour surely staining his teeth.

The silence on the other side almost makes him think he’s already hung up but he heard no click and he is hanging on to that thread of hope.

“Mate, I think you have the wrong number,” the painfully familiar voice rasps out, breathy and high, just like he remembers. 

He licks his teeth, grimacing as his tongue swipes at the lipstick, taste powdery and chemical. “This is Louis Tomlinson right?”

He hears faint rustling of sheets and then his voice is back again. “This is him. I’m sorry but I don’t recognise you?”

Harry feels his face ripen with embarrassment. “‘S me, Harry.”

“Harry Styles?” 

He nods in the dark. He doesn’t verbally reply, he doesn’t need to either judging by the soft gasp that falls from Louis’ side. The breeze picks up, his phone beeps in warning, on the verge of dying and he is still stranded.

“I know this is out of the blue...” he trails off and Louis mutters something like _you don’t say._

“But, erm, I really need a ride and I— I don’t know anyone else I can call. At least not at this hour.”

All his friends are in the bar, enjoying the party. He chooses not to focus on the rising bitterness. The silence is back again and Harry is close to giving up, the single thread of hope threatening to snap. 

“Where are you?” Finally Louis asks, sounding mildly reluctant but willing nonetheless.

“I’m near The Kings Arms on Bloom street,” he relays, hope rushing back, relief coursing through his veins.

“Send me your location and stay on the phone, yeah?” 

He makes a vague noise. “I don’t have much battery left but I’ll try.”

He shares his location with Louis on WhatsApp and waits for the blue ticks to appear.

Louis’ voice pours through the speakers, tinny and a little muffled. “I got it. I’ll be there in ten or less.”

It takes Louis six minutes to arrive, he knows that only because his phone died on him at the last minute.

Harry gapes at the vehicle. “What— what is this thing?”

“It’s a motorcycle?” Louis cheekily shoots back, half amused and half distressed.

He clears his throat and takes a minute to commit this version of Louis to his memory— soft, sleep rumpled, hair sticking out in eight different directions, a pillow crease on his cheek, his outline bathed in the yellow from the streetlights, scruff short and trimmed, dressed in an oversized grey sweatshirt and black sweats— he’s been holding on to memories. One more is nothing and also _everything_.

“If you’re done ogling,” his voice cuts through the still air, the muted pulse of music from the bar matching his thudding heart, lips twisted in a frown.

Harry sputters out an apology. “Fuck, sorry. Erm, you look good, Louis.”

“Certainly not good as you, love,” he retorts, no real bite behind it, genuine as ever.

He had managed to not think about his clothes but now that Louis had pointed it out, he can clearly see how dressed up he is for a simple night out. 

“Swear on me nan’s life I couldn’t pull that blouse off, pal.” 

The blouse had a yellow and green paisley pattern that did come off a bit garishly, his trousers were leather and snug around his thighs but his boots— fuck— they are shimmering silver and have glitter speckled translucent heels. He sheepishly shrugs. “Had it in my closet, ‘s nothing much.”

“Are you sure you can ride in those pants?” Louis questions and if Harry didn’t know better, he would think there is more to the sentence but he does know better and lets the question linger unanswered.

His nose scrunches involuntarily, more of muscle memory than anything. He was always bad at masking his emotions around him. 

Louis is tapping his foot, apparently still waiting for an answer. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s not an issue— riding that is.” His neck heats up at the implication. “I mean in these pants,” he lamely adds, finding half of Louis’ face hidden by his fist, trying his hardest not to laugh.

“Oh, go ahead and laugh. I won’t take any offense,” Harry scoffs, lips curving up in a smile at his giggling bent over form.

His laughter floats up like helium, it mixes with the stars. He glances up at the sky, unblinking, eyes burning.

He thinks he sees him wipe a tear off his right cheek but he isn’t sure with the tears blurring his vision.

He pats the seat, thighs straddling the front part. “C’mon up, love, I don’t fancy staying out too late. ‘Ve become an old man.”

“Impossible. You don’t seriously age, at all. I swear you don’t look a day over eighteen,” he firmly says, acquiescing and straddling the seat, the material around his calves tightening and rising up a few inches, baring a sliver of pale skin between his boots and bottoms. 

“Where am I taking you anyway?”

Harry pretends like he didn’t hear the question over the sound of the engine roaring to life.

“Harry?” He presses again.

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Don’t wanna go back to mine yet,” he lowly mumbles, mood dampening.

Louis doesn’t question him further. He had just begun focusing the feel of wind in his hair when the vehicle comes to an abrupt stop, his hands falling heavily over his shoulders.

He rips them away as if he’s been electrocuted. He clumsily gets off the motorcycle, stumbling a little. 

He looks up at the building they are parked at. “You live here?”

Louis nods, cheeks sucked in.

He lets out a low whistle. “It’s pretty.”

“Thanks. Wanna come in for a cuppa?”

“Yes,” Harry rushes to say even before he’s finished his sentence.

His brows are arched and Harry knows he does that when he is fighting off a snicker— he shouldn’t remember things like that.

He quietly follows, eyes cast downwards, observing the well worn out Vans on his feet, absently comparing them to his own shiny new ones.

Six years ago he would’ve teased him about the condition of his Vans, nudging at the back of them, riling Louis up just enough so they could heatedly snog on the staircase under the pretense of him shutting Harry up.

But they’re not the people they were six years ago and there is very less he can do about it.

Louis stops on the second floor. “This way,” he says, jerking his head, leading them to a brown door, and fits his keys in.

They toe off their footwear and wipe their feet on the doormat. The lights are turned on, flooding the room with a white glare.

His flat is much cleaner than Harry had expected. He tells him as much.

Louis laughs openly, a staccato of ha ha ha, looking pleased. “I’m almost thirty and have friends from work who stop by regularly. Won’t look good if I had my underpants flung over me sofa now, will it?”

Harry snorts a laugh.

“Make yourself at home, put on the telly or whatever you want. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Harry tentatively sits on the brown sofa, squawking when it dips under his weight. He fidgets with the rings on his fingers, looking at the warm tones scattered along the room, walls filled with photo frames, most of the surfaces cluttered with various knick knacks, giving it a homely feel.

Louis brings out two mugs of tea, steam curling over his face and Harry’s heart clenches. It reminds him of countless nights spent drinking tea and pouring over their notes, napping halfway through, cricks in necks from awkward angles, bodies tangled together. 

He always thinks of them in a hazy, blue light, faces and laughter all blurred, memories tucked away in a corner of his mind. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, reaching out for his cuppa, eager to get his hands around something, if only to give them something to do.

He sits beside him, a good five inches between them, lower lip pressed to the ceramic, not drinking yet. 

“You always did that,” he absently muses.

He turns to face him, the cushions dipping and asks, “What?”

Harry shakes his head but at the pointed glare he is shot, he explains himself. “You just press your lips to the rim before drinking y’know.” He imitates the motion, refusing to feel embarrassed or to acknowledge the heat on his nape and ears.

“Oh! I never paid any attention to it.”

“I agree.”

Apparently it’s the wrong thing to say because the air between them turns thick, an uncomfortable air surrounds Louis that had been absent.

“That came out wrong, I’m sorry.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything. He takes a sip of his tea and gulps it down quickly, biting his cheek. It was too hot and the other man had burnt his tongue.

Harry wants to cry.

He does not cry, instead directs his attention to his own cup of tea. The first sip feels off— it is a familiar taste but he had gotten rid of the taste of it over the years. 

He must’ve been grimacing because Louis’ voice snaps him out of his stupor before he can tangle himself in a web of memories. 

“Do you not like it or what?”

He cringes. “I don’t take sugar anymore, just barely add any milk. Almost drink it black these days.”

“Oh I—” he cuts himself off with a shake of his head, hair messy, a few strands of grey shining through. “Should’ve asked if you wanted either. Sorry, H.” 

“No, no, don’t apologise. Should’ve told you, Lou,” Harry takes another sip just to prove he doesn’t mind it.

Louis hides his smile in the cup, eyelids closed, lashes dark and long, casting spidery shadows over his high cheekbones. 

“Do you want to charge your phone?”

Up until this point he forgot he had a dead phone on him and he would probably need it later. He gratefully nods. “Please.”

He hears him fondly chuckle, the same reflecting back on his face.

He follows him to what he assumes is his bedroom. It’s not, it is an office. The same tones he saw in the living room are present in his office. The desk is a rich brown, teak probably, six leather chairs are pushed near it, a tall bookcase resting near a window, overhead lights more amber than white.

“You’re a lifesaver honestly. Thank you so much.”

“Stop thanking me, Harry. You would’ve done the same,” he reassures, shaking his head, handing him the cord, already plugged into a socket near the messy desk.

There is a crack running across the middle, a single one, nothing too bad but it’s not the same, _clear_. He has a tendency to overthink and look too deep into things but it feels like the crack on his screen is a representation of his life.

He feels a hand touch his wrist. “All right, love?”

“Yeah,” he shakes off his hand as if it will burn him.

The clock in the room shows 3:45. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to go back—”

“To your flat,” Louis finishes, eyes trained on him, picking apart his actions, scrutinizing him, probably fishing for more information.

Harry shrugs lamely.

“What were you doing out there alone?” He slowly asks, still surrounded by books and wood, tired but curious nonetheless.

Deciding to pull out one of the chairs, he plops down on it and pulls his feet up, folding his arms around his knees, head resting on them to avoid watching Louis’ reactions.

“Me and my boyfriend— now, ex boyfriend— were supposed to be there to celebrate the birthday of a friend. The birthday celebration doubled as an engagement announcement. Their girlfriend had proposed apparently and they wanted to tell us all. Pretty nice, right?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Louis hums as a sign to let him know he’s listening.

“Well my ex was late or so I thought. I go to congratulate them and apologise for my dick of a partner for not showing up and surprise, surprise. He had arrived earlier with someone else.”

His nose is warm and runny, tears steadily trickling down his cheek, snot and eyeliner rubbing off on his pants, the ripping of his heart loud and ricocheting off the walls.

“They all assumed that we fucking broke up— not a single one thought it was weird even though they saw us together less than two weeks ago.”

“I’m so sorry that happened, darling.” 

Louis’ arms wrap around his hunched over body, both of them shaking by the magnitude of his sobs.

“You don’t deserve to be treated like that, H. You’re worth so much more,” he fiercely whispers into his curls, tacky with sweat and hairspray and product. 

Harry untangles his limbs, welcoming the warm weight of Louis, tugging him closer, burying his sweaty, teary, snotty face in his tummy, nuzzling into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt.

“Can I ask you something?”

He feels the nod on top of his head. 

He breathes deeply and blurts out the one question that he had been swallowing for the past six years. “Why did you leave?”

Louis tenses, his stomach contracts, he feels it, they are both wound up tight like a stretched out rubber band. 

He deflates. “It wasn’t the right time.”

“What do you mean?”

Louis tries to pull away, Harry resists and holds him tighter.

He exhales. “Let me get a chair, my back isn’t as forgiving as it was, darling.”

While Louis pulls up a chair, Harry busies himself by scrubbing his cheeks and wiping away whatever was left of the lipstick, dragging a knuckle under his eyes, grimacing at the black kohl smudged on his skin.

He meets Louis’ gaze. He can’t decipher whatever is running through his mind but at least he can lose himself in those eyes. 

“The time wasn’t right.”

“What?”

“We were too young, H. We were young and had no idea how the world works, at least not beyond what we thought was our entire world, y’know. I loved you, back then, but it was selfish love. I didn’t actually know— it might sound shitty and makes me seem like a dick but,” he pauses and licks his lips, mouth puckering into an absent pout.

“But?” He urges, leaning over his folded legs, muscles of his abdomen clenching.

Louis snaps himself back. “Right. There is no way to say this without sounding like a prick but I was in love with the idea of love and not in love with the person I was with,” he quietly says, the smile on his face bleak.

Harry fishnouths, at a loss for words, because, fuck. He didn’t see that coming. “I don’t think I would’ve ever— I never saw that coming. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I don’t have anything to say. Wow.”

Louis laughs but it’s a choked off sound. “Never thought I’d tell this to anyone, fuck, especially not you.”

“Why did you then?” He softly asks, sliding the silver ring off his middle finger, the one Louis had given him a year after they met, _peace_ engraved on it, holding it between his palms, hand already feeling naked. He presses his palms close until the circle digs lightly into his skin.

And the way Louis looks at him in the minute, lower lip wet, eyes starry, the emotion on his face so _tender_ that he feels a sweet ache bloom in his chest, the blossoms of it spread across his sternum, flowers growing betwixt the hollows of his ribs, the muscle tucked beside his left lung is pulsing so loud, so red— it is everything he could never imagine he needed to feel.

There are a few moments that will always hurt before you can remember it with love. This is one of them. He is already aching and hurting and the moment is still alive as the blood coursing through his veins. 

He will always remember them, this version of them, in a glittery exhale. Their hollowed parts, empty hands, a little imperfect edges swallowed by shadows of safety.

“I felt brave enough.” His voice quivers, his lips tremble, his wrists— his delicate, beautiful wrists, they shake and.

And his heart breaks and mends itself all in the same beat, same breath.

“You’re the bravest person I know, Lou.”

Their bodies are heavy and exhausted— spent from all the talking, the shit that went down, the words they shared.

Harry abandons his chair and squats, his joints creak and groan. He pushes his hair off his forehead and rests his cheek against Louis’ thigh, the curve of his knee just below his chin, and breathes. 

They exist, touching each other, inhaling and exhaling stardust, a love lost to time holding their hearts together.

“He never even sent me flowers when we began dating in May.”

When Louis runs his hands through his curls, he keens and leans into his touch, his statement from earlier forgotten already. 

There is a word for that— _cafuné_ — a Brazilian Portuguese word. A lover’s hands running through your hair.

“Flowers, huh?” Curiosity dances in the curves of his question.

He flushes a rosy pink. “I love flowers. I might be a bit of a hopeless romantic but it really is so pure when your partner brings you flowers. April showers bring May flowers. I don’t know, Lou. I’m just spewing out silly shit.”

They both acutely feel the vibrations of each other’s voices, chests rumbling, throat working. 

“You’re not silly for wanting that.” 

Hesitation laces his next question, voice scratchy. “Were you in love?”

“You as in me or you as in both of us?”

“You, plural.”

He chuckles, dry and deprecating. “No. I thought I was but like you said, I loved the feeling more than the person.”

“Why’d— why did you call me?” 

The tension between them is thick.

The air he lets out is hot, his entire being sags. “I didn’t have anyone I could call.”

“That is all?” He hears the thinly veiled disappointment in his voice.

He digs his nose into the fleshy part of his leg. Louis squeaks. His lips tug up in a smile.

“No? I dunno, I could’ve called my friends, not the ones me and my ex had in common but I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“We talked. I made you talk a lot,” he points out, ruffling his already mussed up hair, fond and sweet.

“You did but it is different with you. It always is.”

“I’m glad you did,” Louis sincerely confesses and the floor is cold, his legs are cramping and there is no blood flow to his toes but there is no other place he would rather be.

“Did you seriously didn’t recognise my voice?”

“It’s gotten more deep and I was half asleep. Didn’t want to give myself too much hope in case I was dreaming.”

Harry tiredly hums.

He hauls him up, tugging on his blouse, accidentally pinching his skin in the process. “Ow, fuck! Lou, that is my skin!”

He snickers and rubs his sides consolingly. “This is too easy.”

Harry rearranges limbs and snuggles closer, resting his face in the crook of his neck. “It is. We deserve it after tonight.”

They yawn simultaneously, yawns breaking off into sleepy giggles.

“Wanna stay the night?”

“Yes,” he dazedly murmurs, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his neck.

“I’ll show you the guest room then,” he replies, coaxing him into standing and leading him to the other end of the hall, a light hand placed on his waist, lower half of his palm resting on his love handle.

“Goodnight, H.”

“Goodnight, Lou.”

Harry tumbles down onto the bed, blouse half unbuttoned and askew, legs still trapped in tight pants but he feels peaceful.

As he burrows under the fresh sheets, floral fragrance of Louis’ fabric softener tickling his nose, the sort of break up is a distant thought.

* * *

Louis drops him off at his place in the morning, his stale clothes in a tote bag, both of them decked out in matching black trackies, an ugly burnt orange scarf wrapped around his neck, courtesy of Louis.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Louis firmly tells him, hugging him tight, fitting so right, so perfect, he forgets they’re two separate bodies.

He presses a kiss to his temple. “I won’t. Expect me at your doorstep every Friday with takeout demanding for cuddles.”

His laughter rattles in his ribs. “I’m counting down days,” he teases with an answering press of lips to his clavicle.

He tries to pull away but fails, Harry’s arms still tight around him, reluctant to let him go.

“Come up for breakfast. I’ll make you a full English,” he bribes, words muffled by the scarf and possibly the hotness flooding his nose, eyes brimming with tears. He kind of feels silly, unwilling to let go of him. 

Hell they were apart for six years, barely any contact between them and it took Harry few hours to need the other man.

Louis pulls back just enough to raise a hand to rest on his cheek. He thumbs under his eyes, catching a stray tear, cooing softly. “Why the tears, sweet love? Let’s get you in, it’s too cold for you here.”

He chuckles wetly. “You are the one who gets grumpy in the cold.”

Louis’ face splits into a warm smile, it makes his insides feel like goo. 

He fumbles with his key, and opens the door with more force than necessary. The coat rack precariously shakes, threatening to fall.

Louis giggles, finding humour in his pain. “Clumsy oaf,” he says, more enamoured than anything but it might be Harry imagining things.

“I really want to make a jab at your height but the chances of you leaving are too high and I really don’t want you to go,” he sniffs, unwinding the scarf and draping it on the rack.

Their shoes lie messily beside each other. 

He places a gentle hand on his waist, face soft and open. Feelings, white hot embellishments, starry satin ribbons wrap around his heart.

It’s far too much over a simple gesture. He might be going mad.

Louis cosies up on his favourite armchair, deep violet, details done in gold thread. 

His mind flashes to a vision of him curled up on the same chair, waiting for Louis to come home, grading papers with a mug of warm coffee.

It’s been over half a decade and he’s barely had any contact with the other man but, fuck, it was always easy to fall in love with him. Everything was easy with him.

“Where is the breakfast I was promised, Styles?” 

His complaining pulls him out of his thoughts, the vision fading away, giving way to the clear image of him burrowed in the chair, soft and precious. 

His dimples dig into his cheeks. “So demanding,” he retorts, gathering his curls into a bun, snagging a stray hair tie lying on the lamp.

“What the fuck?” He hears him loudly exclaim.

Half concerned he turns around, fluffing his tiny bun. “What’s wrong?”

“Did you seriously— why was there a hair tie on the lamp?” Louis stares at him wide eyed.

A honk of laughter bursts out of him. “Oh my god, Louis. You’re so adorable.”

He cooks him a full English like promised. He puts way too much ketchup on his eggs, Louis keeps knocking his knee into his. 

He makes himself a cup of coffee and lets him shit on his beverage choices. “Behave like a respectable Englishman, Harold.”

“I don’t hear you.”

“Well, you should,” he primly says, emptying his cuppa, cheeks a little bulged with the tea, eyes puffy with too little sleep.

He feels a warmth swell in the middle of his chest and it blankets him in a bundle of safety and home. He wants to spend forever reliving this moment or have a forever filled with these. 

His rib cage isn’t wide enough, the warmth spills out of the gaps, between the empty spaces of his fingers. 

Louis stands up, dusting off imaginary dust from his trackies, still sleep warm and soft as love. “I’ll be on my way and out of your hair, Harold.”

“Oh. Okay, then.” He stands up too, the lump in his throat new and out of the blue.

Louis’ face is soft and tender as always. He keeps smiling, his eyes are crinkled and Harry can’t swallow this baseball sized lump of emotions clogging his throat, threatening to choke out tears, eyes and nose already burning.

He lingers awkwardly in the doorway, fingers half curled around the frame, nails bitten. It endears him to no end.

Harry half leaps at him, wrapping his limbs around the firm weight of him. 

“Will I see you again?” he pleads, sniffling into his hair, breathing in his shampoo.

Smaller hands rub his back. “You will, darling. I’m only a phone call away.”

He begrudgingly unwraps himself, only because Louis started squirming in his hold and not because he wanted to. He never wants to let go.

He watches his silhouette become smaller and smaller. 

He shuts the door with a forlorn sigh, trying to chase away the iciness in centre of his chest, trying to think of ways to bump into him soon. He doesn’t listen to the tiny voice in his head screaming that it is too soon.

_Nothing is too soon with Louis._

Three hours later he receives a bouquet of sunflowers and dark blue delphiniums with a card nestled between the soft petals.

_forgot my scarf at yours. can i pick up you and the scarf on Thursday at six thirty? — lou_

He shoots him a reply. _Yes! I would hate for you to part w that ugly scarf._

_call it a date then?_

There are a lot of things that are faulty with them. He isn’t supposed to move on that quick, he loved his ex. It shouldn’t be such an easy decision. Things should be awkward and stilted and everything that has happened in the last twelve hours is absurd.

There are so many things wrong but he couldn’t care less. 

It is seldom we get second chances in life. Especially where love is involved and Harry will take it. He will take any and all chances to feel Louis’ love again.

And maybe it won’t work out again and he will be left with a slightly more cracked heart but there is a lot of love left in him with Louis’ name engraved on it.

He’ll be damned if he has to carry it any longer.

His eyes stray to the bouquet. 

The answer writes itself.


End file.
